


Pins and Needles

by goshdangitsjo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Character Development Speedrun, Fluff, I started writing this before the liveshow came out okay, Jon Sasha and Tim are all research assistants, Just a little mean, M/M, Martin works in artifact storage, No spookiness, Not Canon Compliant, OG archive team, POV Martin Blackwood, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Season/Series 01, but it gets better, canon typical Jon being mean to Martin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:21:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24600751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goshdangitsjo/pseuds/goshdangitsjo
Summary: Martin was only just about to make his presence known when he looked down — a terrible habit which Martin recently picked up and has only led to far more flustered encounters than before, which is saying something.He looked down at Jon’s tie.It was crooked.It would be so easy to walk over and straighten it, fix it for him. It was precisely the kind of disorder that always nagged at the back of Martin’s brain and kept him from focusing on precisely what he should.______________________Martin maybe has a tiny crush on his coworker. Not that he'll ever do anything about it. Pre season one.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 28
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

Martin scratched his chin nervously. He hadn’t shaved the past two days and a dirty-blond stubble was itching at his skin. He clutched the stack of folders, overflowing with papers, closer to his chest as he entered the research assistants’ bullpen.

Jonathan Sims was standing with Tim at the water cooler, his hair neatly slicked back, if a little long where it rested against the nape of his neck.

Tim laughed. A gentle but present sound that made everything so much easier for those around him. Martin envied him his easy companionship, charisma, good nature. Jon was smiling, too; whatever Tim had said was enough to coax a wry upturn from his lips.

Martin was only just about to make his presence known when he looked down — a terrible habit which he recently picked up and which has only led to far more flustered encounters than before, which he didn't think possible.

He looked down at Jon’s tie.

It was crooked.

As always, Jon’s tie was loosened and the top button of his shirt collar was undone. The tie hung down to brush his belt buckle and the tail of it — the _tail_ — was slightly askew. It hung out at an angle, showing a little tag and the seam.

It would be so easy to walk over and straighten it, fix it for him. It was precisely the kind of disorder that always nagged at the back of Martin’s brain and kept him from focusing on precisely what he should.

The twitch in Martin’s fingers as this thought occurred to him was enough to set two of the papers in his hands swooshing to the floor, making Martin shift the rest of the stack to one arm as he bent to pick them up. This, of course, caused the whole stack to avalanche, scattering under desks in a fan, one of the sheets settling on a brown oxford shoe that had stepped over to help.

Tim got on one knee to collect the scattered paper.

“Honestly it’s okay, here, let’s sort this out. No need to apologize.” Tim let an easy laugh pass his lips as he tapped the papers back into a neat stack against the floor.

“Sorry.” Martin said once more before he could stop himself. The often-used words had made it past his lips without him registering their appearance at all. Tim just gave a friendly roll of his eyes and offered a hand out to Martin, pulling him up from the floor.

Tim rifled through the stack. “See?” he handed it back to Martin. “No harm done.”

A scoff from the water cooler. Martin’s cheeks burned under the stubble. He set the stack of papers on Jon’s desk and headed back out the door without taking his eyes off of his shoes.

* * *

At the end of the day when Martin had collected himself, he went back to the bullpen. The lights looked to be out and he figured that it was late enough that the assistants would all have left and Martin would be able to re-sort the offending papers into some kind of order. There was no way Jon had gotten to them today, but Martin still felt embarrassed for leaving without setting them straight earlier. He had just gotten so flustered.

He walked into the room without much consideration and froze in his tracks. Jon was sat hunched over his desk, jaw clenched, the lamp on his desk the only light on in the room.

“Oh, um, hullo,” Martin said dumbly. Jon glanced over his shoulder and rolled his eyes before focusing back on the papers with a shake of his head. “I didn’t think anyone would still be here, it’s getting on half six.”

Martin stepped closer to the desk, shuffling his feet. Jon had the stack of papers in front of him, fanned out so that the organizing numbers could be seen at the top. There were many different small piles that coordinated and Martin could see that Jon had, in fact, gotten around to them today. Damn.

“Ah, you’re um. Sorting through those, hm? Seems a tough job.” Martin knew exactly the sort of job it was — it was supposed to be his job.

“Yes, well, it wouldn't really need doing if you hadn't dropped them all earlier today, would it?" Jon snapped at him. He took the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb and leaned back in his office chair. “Is there something you need, or can I get back to fixing your mess?”

His tie was still crooked. It caught Martin’s attention as he stumbled through his next words, distracting him again, making a fool of himself _again_.

“Right. Um well. No. Well — yes — that is —” Jon threw him another look that could cut glass. “Well I came to put it right, I came to sort them again I didn’t think you’d get to them today, and I left in such a rush earlier because of the papers falling all over and I had just sorted them before bringing them up to you and basically — um,” Martin paused his rambling. “Basically, would you like some help with that?”

Jon didn’t respond. He studied Martin carefully in the glow of the desklamp where he shifted from foot to foot. Eventually, after what felt like an age to Martin, he turned back to the papers and let out a heavy sigh.

Martin took this as optimistically as he could and pulled a chair up to the opposite side of Jon’s desk. He took some papers from the bottom half of the large unsorted stack and began diligently and efficiently sorting through them. After about five minutes, he looked up to see Jon’s dark eyes staring into his own. His breath caught in his throat.

Jon’s jaw was set, his eyes narrowed, and his chin rested on the heel of his hand, his fingers in a fist over his mouth. Studying. Again.

“Well, there doesn’t seem to be any sense in both of us being here. We have completely different systems of organization, this is pointless.” He said this almost to himself, there was a bite to it, but not malice as was so often the case.

Jon stood up and shuffled some papers into his satchel. As he began to walk away he seemed to remember something, and turned back to Martin.

“Right, um. Thank you.” It was stilted and strange coming from his mouth. “Um, I… Sorry. What was…?” Jon trailed off and looked as uncomfortable as Martin had ever seen him.

Oh. Right.

“Um.” Martin swallowed. “Martin?” Too quiet. He cleared his throat. “Martin. Martin Blackwood.”

“Right. Um. Jonathan Sims.” Jon turned mechanically on his heel and left, leaving Martin with a half sorted stack of papers and an empty feeling somewhere in his chest.

* * *

Two days later, Martin had another occasion to visit the assistants’ bullpen. Sasha was sat at her desk, Tim leaning against it and nitpicking her choice in sandwich for the day.

Martin walked up to the pair of them, the air much more easy on its way in and out of his lungs than it had been the other day. Still, Martin gave a quick glance around the office before opening his mouth to speak.

“So, no Jon today?” He tried to sound nonchalant.

“No, Jon’s here,” Sasha replied, looking up from her turkey on rye “I think he’s just out for a coffee.” She smacked Tim’s hand away from where it strayed dangerously close to an overhanging leaf of lettuce.

“Ah. It’s only just… well he asked for the specs on that spooky painting? I have the details here.” He unclipped a laminated paper from his Archival Storage index, waving it loosely in the air.

“Well I’d say you could wait for him,” Tim had given up on annoying Sasha, then “but I would be absolutely accommodating should you want to leave it here with me.”

“What?” Martin laughed, the smile reaching his eyes as it was wont to do in Tim’s company. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It just means I know that my coworker can be a prick, Martin.” Tim rolled his eyes. “If you want to leave the info sheet in his in box, I’ll be sure to tell him it’s there.”

“ _I’ll_ be sure to tell him it's there, Martin,” Sasha chimed in, “you know this lump won’t remember.”

Martin laughed again as he placed the info sheet into Jon’s box.

“I’ll admit, you two _are_ far more pleasant to deal with.” Martin sat down in the wooden chair opposite them. “At least I know that you both _actually_ know my name, Jon’s probably forgotten again by now.”

“He _what?_ ” Sasha exclaimed, her half eaten sandwich having been set down rather emphatically.

“Oh, no, did you not hear about this?” Tim’s eyes lit up. “Martin was here until midnight the other night sorting through Jon’s paperwork —”

“It was quarter ‘til eight, Tim, don’t—”

“The bastard stood up and _left him to it_ , but—”

“It really isn’t as dramatic as all that, I was the one who—”

“—not before asking for Martin’s _name_ as if the bloke isn’t in here every other day doing fetching for us.”

“Tim, really, it isn’t that big a deal. I was coming back up to sort the papers anyway, I wasn’t expecting him to actually still be here working.”

“But your _name_ , Martin!” Sasha sounded horrified. “You’ve been working together for _two years._ ”

“Yes, Sasha, I’m aware.” Martin said this quietly, and the other two exchanged a glance unseen by him. “I mean, what did you expect, really. How often have you actually seen him acknowledge my presence or speak to me?”

Martin seemed to be looking somewhere in the space between Tim and Sasha.

“I mean, the only time he even seems to know I’m here is when I make a terrible fool of myself, and who would want to associate with that?” Martin looked up then, meeting their eyes once more with a smile back on his face. “Anyway, lots to do. Please make sure Jon gets that.”

Martin stood up again, grabbing the index binder from where he’d set it on the floor and gave a little wave to the two research assistants before swinging open the door.

Directly into Jonathan Sims.

“Oh!” Martin let out a small gasp and the door swung shut behind him. He mercifully kept his grip on the binder.

“Martin!” Jon held an empty cardboard coffee cup aloft. The tail of his tie was too long. Martin stared at the spot where it stuck out all crooked against the white button-down.

“Jon! Jonathan.” Should he be calling him Jonathan? It occurred to Martin that this may be the first time he had actually addressed the man to his face. Yikes.

“Just Jon is fine, Martin.”

“Right. Okay, then.” an incredulous corner of Martin’s lip tugged ever so slightly upwards. “Um, I’ve put the Fulsetti painting specs in your in box, take your time with it. If you need to actually see it, just, um, let me know, I suppose.”

“Excellent, Martin. I will let you know, Martin.”

Ooo kayyyy… Martin’s eyebrows knit together in amused confusion. This was a little strange, and his heart felt like it was being run by ten excitable butterflies. Instead of saying anything else, Martin gave a slow nod and walked back down the hall to the stairway. Behind him, Jonathan Sims was once again pinching the bridge of his nose.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote ch 1 of this before the live show dropped so hoooo boy now we're /extra/ canon noncompliant.

Martin lay awake that night, the sound of his name on Jon’s lips playing through his head. It was absurd, really, there was no reason for Martin to feel flustered at the barest sign of human decency from an attractive man.

No — _not_ an attractive man. Martin _refused_ to think of Jon that way. He’s a coworker, nothing more, and _barely_ a coworker at that. They are only _now_ allowed to be considered acquaintances, because _somebody_ had only just learned Martin’s name.

Martin let out a frustrated groan and smashed a pillow into his face.

It really wouldn’t be so bad if Jon hadn’t just _kept_ saying his name. As if he was trying to _prove_ that he knew Martin’s stupid name, trying to offer his _pity_ to him. Martin hated that, he hated sympathy. It wasn’t any use to him, he’d rather tough it out on his own than have _anyone’s_ pity, _anyone’s_ sympathy. 

He woke up cold the next morning, his pillows on the floor and his sheets at the foot of his bed.

* * *

It was always cool in artifact storage. Not _cold_ , but the temperature was kept at a precise 18 degrees to keep the various books and furniture items in good condition. The air was dry, too, and Martin had gotten into the habit of wearing a sweater to work and keeping a nice smelling lotion on his desk. He always ran warm, anyway.

There weren’t too many people who worked in artefact storage, a lot of the time it was just Martin. He spent his time filling requests from other departments and conducting his own small amount of research to give the others a jumping off point. It was nice down there for the most part. Everything was organized and labeled, the index was coded, and Martin felt very comfortable with his ability to do the work.

It was a little... Empty. He sometimes wished for more staff in storage, if only to help distract him from the occasional whispering coming from the bookshelves and the transparent, non-corporeal ooze that seeped from a bin in room four.

It was probably for the best. The fewer people who actually oversaw how Martin worked, the less likely it was for him to be found out for lying on his CV.

He did enjoy it when people came to visit storage. He liked to be helpful.

So when sharp footsteps came echoing down the stairs and into the hallway, Martin couldn’t help but to perk up and turn toward the doorway.

Jonathan came striding in, his jaw set and his brows drawn. He carried the laminated document containing information on the haunted painting in his hand, it made a funny noise as Jon walked.

“This is completely infuriating. Your work, I presume?” Jonathan thrust the hand holding the paper toward Martin, staring daggers at him.

“H-hullo, Jon, sorry w— is there a problem?” Martin’s contented mood died instantly, replaced by the familiar swoop in his stomach. It was alarming to see Jon down in storage in the first place, but it was far more anxiety inducing to see him in one of his moods. Martin shifted to the edge of his seat, twisting to face him fully.

Jon took a deep breath, then huffed as he ran a hand through his already disheveled hair.

“Where do I— ‘Origin: unknown. Properties: unknown. Donor contact: unknown.’ It seems that the only information you’ve managed to attribute to this painting is that it is, in fact, a painting.” Jon looked down at the paper and walked around to stand in front of Martin’s desk. “Ah yes, here it is: ‘Composition: oil on canvas. Wooden frame. Pine.’ and even that is followed by a _question mark_.” He placed the paper down to face Martin, framing it with his hands as he leaned over the desk to capture Martin’s eyes completely with his own.

Martin couldn’t find anything to say. He just stared back at Jon’s expectant face with wide unblinking eyes, trying to force them to stay dry. He swallowed once. Jon’s tie hung down, brushing the desk. It was too long today, reaching two inches past Jon’s belt when he stood up straight.

“Just. Show me the painting. I’ll see what I can figure out.” Jon finally leaned back, crossing his arms and Martin stood up quickly, nearly tipping his chair over.

Martin started walking toward the storage rooms. When he looked over his shoulder, Jon was still standing by Martin’s desk. He had the same look on his face from the other night, his hand in a fist, knuckles pressed to his mouth. Eyes narrowed with the distinct expression of _thinking_ worn on every aspect of his face. There was a line between his eyebrows that grew deeper, creasing the skin and trying desperately to become a wrinkle. His glasses were halfway down his nose, and when he let out a breath, he shoved them back into place and walked to the doorway, brushing past Martin into the storage area proper.

“Right.” Martin spoke shakily “I just need to unlock the room for you. I’ll also need to be present for the handling of the artifact as you study it.”

Jon scoffed at that as Martin turned the key and gestured for Jon to enter

“Although I’m sure your — _expertise_ — is appreciated by some, I assure you that we would both rather I do this alone.” Jon stepped into the room, flicking on the dim fluorescents.

“Hmm.” Martin tried to ignore the sting in that statement. “You see — it's actually- it's actually policy that I be present? I mean, you must have been down here before, you know that a member of the storage team has to oversee handling?”

Jon huffed his breath yet again, his annoyance seemed to be a perpetual state at this point.

“I wouldn’t have to _handle_ it at all if there had been proper notation on the specification sheet. I don’t need or want you here.”

Martin took a moment to steel himself. He looked at Jon and tried to mimic what he saw in his face. The annoyance and frustration coming from his narrowed eyes and set jaw and then —

“Well tough. I am going to be there while you handle the spooky painting, and it will be a lot more pleasant for the both of us if you could just accept that fact and let us get on with our jobs.”

Jon’s jaw dropped slightly at that, and Martin continued before he could deliver whatever scathing retort was surely coming.

“And another thing. My job is storage. I maintain the artifacts. I keep track of where they are, who has them, when we got them, and I check to make sure that there isn’t anything harmfully spooky happening with them on the daily. _That_ is my job. Remind me, Jon, what is _your_ job title?”

“I- I’m a research assistant I-”

“Right. Your job is to research, that’s right. Sure, I type up the information on those little handy laminate cards, I print them out, I put them in a nice color-coded _binder_ , but do you know where I get the information? _Your department._ So next time you have a problem with the specifications available for whatever arbitrary haunted doll you’re looking at, I suggest you buck up and _do your job_.”

Martin stood there for a few long seconds, arms crossed and seething, until everything that just came out of his mouth caught up with his brain. His eyes went wide and his jaw dropped, an exact mirror of the shorter man standing in front of him.

The only thing that came from Jon in the following silence was a soft “Good lord” as he turned to scan the room they had entered.

Neither of them spoke as Martin opened the locker containing the Fulsetti painting, carried it out carefully and placed it on the examination table. Neither of them looked at the other as Martin passed Jon a pair of cotton gloves and donned a set of his own.

Martin’s shock at his own outburst had turned to a wide-eyed, pink-cheeked embarrassment, and he kept his gaze firmly on the painting as he removed it’s protective covering.

Jon cleared his throat and shifted carefully forward, grasping the frame delicately to set it up on its edge, and Martin found that he had a stomach ache.

“Don’t remove the film covering the actual painting,” Martin warned before Jon could do anything else. “We’re pretty sure it's something to do with the constellations? The Fulsetti family was reported to have been found with, um, dark voids? Where their eyes should have been? A-and spots like stars dancing in them. The whole family was missing for thirteen days before they were found, but it was like they’d only been dead for two.”

“Yes, I read the police report.” Jon shivered as he studied the painting, turning it to examine the back. There were no markings there, just a brown paper backing to protect the canvas within its frame.

“I don’t see any kind of artist’s signature. Has the oil or canvas been dated?” Jon asked, glancing at Martin.

Marin cringed a little. “Sorry, no… honestly, there hasn’t been much in the way of studies done on it, sorry.”

“Well, I suppose that’s my fault anyway.” Jon spoke under his breath, almost to himself. Martin kept looking on, watching his gloved hands run along the length of the frame before placing the whole painting canvas-side down on the metal table. He ran a finger along the inside of the frame, the brown paper crinkling at his touch. “Christ, it’s freezing in here.”

“Ah, yes, well the artifacts — that is, storage is kept cool for preservation. Sorry.”

“It’s fine," Jon said dismissively, "I just have bad circulation. Do you reckon we could peel back this paper and look at the back of the canvas? There might be some sort of signature we could see if the canvas itself was exposed.” He started carefully picking at where the paper was glued to the wood.

“I don’t see why not,” Martin shrugged “just be careful not to tear it.”

“It would probably be on the bottom right, I’ll start there.” Jon worked the paper loose slowly, peeking underneath to try and find the signature.

When there was about an inch and a half of the paper was peeled up, Jon stopped, rubbing his hands together. He was shaking slightly from the cold, and his lips were just tinged with purple. “ _Christ_ ,” Jon swore again, breathing hot air into his cupped hands.

“Are you okay? Here, let me get the rest of it up.” Martin moved in to work on the painting, but Jon slung out an arm to stop him.

“Wait, don’t touch it.” His teeth started chattering, his face was ashy. He moved quickly toward the painting and jerkily ripped up another two inches of the paper. A blast of freezing air blew from the canvas, lowering the temperature of the room to a biting negative three degrees. Jon let out a shout.

“Ha! T-there it-t is!” He leaned over to look at the bottom right corner of the painting, then grabbed a shocked Martin by the arm to usher him out of the room. Jon slammed the storage room door behind him before collapsing to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest, hands stuffed under his armpits.

“What the hell? A-are you okay? What just happened?” Martin removed his gloves and kneeled down to the ground next to Jon to place a hand to his face. He was ice cold and shook uncontrollably. “Oh my god, you’re freezing.”

Without thinking, Martin enveloped Jon where he sat on the floor, his arms coming around Jon’s narrow shoulders, Martin’s warm hands rubbing up and down over Jon’s thin dress shirt. They sat like that for a few minutes, Jon’s shivering slowing and eventually coming to a stop.

Martin held on for a few more seconds, his actions catching up with his brain once again. It struck him how nicely Jon fit into his arms, his head tucked under Martin’s chin.

_No. Creepy, creepy, creepy. Stop._

Martin released Jon and stood quickly.

“Do… Do you need anything? I could make you a cuppa?” Martin asked as Jon stood, avoiding his eyes. “Might help chase out the rest of the chill.”

A favor, something nice for Martin to do. Definitely not a chance for him to spend more time with Jon.

Jon nodded curtly, and Martin led him back out the hallway and into the breakroom.

Silence permeated the space between them once again as Martin busied himself making the tea. Jon sat in a hard plastic chair, his chin resting on the heel of his hand and his leg bouncing under the table. Martin wondered if there was ever a time that the crease between his eyebrows _wasn’t_ present. Or if there was ever a time his tie was straight. Did Jon look in the mirror in the morning? Leave the house with a straight tie? What happened between leaving home and arriving at The Magnus Institute to make his tie so completely out of balance? Did he wake up with deep thought already creasing his face?

Martin poured the hot water on top of the tea bags, stirring milk and three sugars into one.

“How do you take it?” Martin asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Hm? Oh, just milk.”

Martin set the tea down in front of Jon, who immediately wrapped both hands around the warm mug and lifted it to his lips.

“You may want to get maintenance to look into your air conditioning,” Jon mumbled around his mug. “It seems to be a bit on the fritz.”

Martin blinked at him.

“You’re joking. That was... Not the aircon.” Martin said slowly as he sat across from Jon. “It was — well the- the painting, it was all spooky and cold! Besides, I don’t think the thermostat could go below freezing even if something _did_ go weird with the technology.”

Jon looked Martin resolutely in the eye. “It didn’t go below freezing, it was just kind of cold.”

“Jon, you- you almost had really bad hypothermia.”

“I told you, I have bad circulation.”

“I felt the cold air! It came from the canvas when you tore off the paper!”

“Bad timing.”

“Wh-what?? But you —” was all Martin could say before Jon cut him off.

“I saw a signature and a date. 1822, signed A.F. Not the most helpful, but I suppose it is more of a lead than I had before.” Jon gulped the rest of his tea and stood. “Thank you for… for your assistance, Mr. Blackwood. Martin. I’ll just.”

Jon looked at Martin for a few seconds, then turned mechanically and walked out of the door.

Martin leaned back in his own chair, bewilderment the only feeling he seemed capable of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S1 Martin: Do you ever get tired of being nice. Do you ever wish you could just go apeshit.  
> S1 Martin: *immediately gets a stomach ache*
> 
> Hey, guys! Thanks for reading. I'm writing this whole fic as build up for one very specific scene. I love writing. Follow me on tumblr @goshdangitsjo!


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